


reminisce

by shuckit



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: F/M, This is Trash Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 10:03:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16910877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuckit/pseuds/shuckit
Summary: 3 YEARS AFTER ANYA AND DMITRY RUN AWAY TOGETHER AU.Dmitry seated himself next to her, smiling softly. “Do you remember when I told you for the first time about my childhood?”“Yes. I loved how you always called it ‘myPetersburg’. Like no one else could ever take it from you.”





	reminisce

**Paris, 1930**

“о мой бог, дима, где ты?“

From Russian to English, Anya’s words loosely translated to, “oh my god, Dima, where are you?”

She stood in their small, barely affordable kitchen, peering out of the frosted window at the street down below. It was dark out already and the sky was wrapped in an inky darkness. Dmitry was bound to have come home from work nearly an hour ago but the cobblestoned street had remained as empty as a beggar's stomach.

Anya tightened her grip on the wooden broom, having paused midway through her sweeping to gaze out of the window and for a rare moment, let her thoughts wander.

Three years exactly had passed since the momentous day Anya, Dmitry and Vlad had arrived in Paris. Over the rolling hills, Anya had caught a glimpse of the ‘city of light’, and the Eiffel tower in its impressive glory. She could still feel the hope that had surged in her chest as she viewed her future splayed out in front of her. Since that day, so much had happened, she could barely comprehend it. But even after all this time, there was a part of her that missed Russia. She could see the same longing in Dmitry, the domed architecture reflecting in his eyes, the fresh smell of snow in his lungs. Even Anya still remembered the beauty of her old home although she found Paris far more to her liking. But those were words that never passed their lips; that life was over. 

In the past three years, Dmitry had found employment while Anya did what little she could to make money. They didn’t have much, but it was enough. Their small, humble apartment offered the protection and safety they had both been lacking for such a large part of their lives. The walls were as thin as paper but properly kept out the cold and maintained the safe atmosphere of home. Their neighbors called them a cat and dog (“chat et chien” in French) because of their consistent bickering. But in the end, their arguments were harmless and their differences melted away to reveal love. In fact, if anything, their bickering was a key part in how they displayed their love. Over years of having difficulty expressing their emotions, or bottling up what they felt, it was only understandable that they did not dramatically express their love in the same way others did.

Anya tightened her grip on the broom, the rough wood texture digging into her blistered palms. Yet another reminder of the life she’d experienced three years ago. She could clearly remember the freezing days when she’d breathe hot air onto her blue knuckles, rearranging her grip on the broom before continuing to sweep in long strokes the Russian streets. She did what she could to survive and although meager pay, she’d survived and wore the blisters on her palms as proof.

These days, making a pay was far easier and Anya had managed to find a job in a local department store. It was a stark reminder to her of what her life could have looked like if she’d chosen to accept her role as the duchess Anastasia. Heavy, jeweled necklaces, sleek dresses, thin, paper white gloves. But Anya had made her choice and never, for a second would she ever regret the life she now shared with Dmitry. Who needed that life of splendour and responsibility when she already had what she wanted; happiness and her stubborn, foolish, handsome prince.

Dmitry had found work as a construction worker for low-income housing projects. Paris was a booming city, constantly growing and blossoming. A flush of new immigrants were arriving, from Russia and various other countries across the farthest seas and the need for new housing was vital. He was fond of his job and it was a new, humble start for him. His previous life of cons and tricks was over and done with. Anya was quite frankly proud of him. It couldn’t have been easy to completely ditch everything he’d once stood for. But he had. 

Anya’s thoughts were cut short as a short, hard rap on the door jerked her back to reality. An icy shiver jolted up her spine at the prospect of opening the door to see Gleb’s firm, hard features and a gun pointed at her chest. She lifted her chin, boldly silencing those grim thoughts, those foolish fears, those nightmares that belonged exclusively to the past, and opened the door with a graceful twist of the knob.

Dmitry stood on the doorstep, his dark hair swept messily away from his face, a gleam in his chestnut eyes. His dimples were deeply indented in his cheeks as he smiled boyishly and reached out his hand for her to take.

“What,” she thundered, “took you so long? What are you doing?”

He’d gently grabbed her palm and pulled her out onto the doorstep along with him. “It’s been three years, Anya,” he said, making no effort to answer her question. “Come on, I want to show you something.” He snatched her coat from the hanger and softly closed the door behind them. Wrapping the large coat around her, he pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

“What is it?” She demanded, accepting the jacket but refusing to return the smile. She was mildly furious with him for taking so long and not bothering to explain at all. That wasn’t fair to her! She’d had to pace in their kitchen with nothing but her thoughts and worries to keep her company.

His hand enclosed around hers and he began pulling her down the street, his lips sealed and his eyes glimmering with excitement. There was no use in trying to weasle answers out of him and so she simply allowed herself to be swept along with him, their warm hands pressed together. 

Passing through the French streets, Anya let her gaze wander across the cobblestone and beautiful street lamps. Windows were dark as their owners had already retired to bed and it brought a thrill to Anya’s heart that they were heading who knew where as fellow Parisians were preparing to sleep.

“Almost there,” Dmitry reassured her after several minutes of quick walking, their shoes thudding against the ground as they walked.

Several moments later, they reached a semi-large building. The door was gaping open but the interior was completely dark, as if nothing existed upon entering. Just a hole of inky blackness. Anya bit the inside of her cheek as she lifted her chin. She’d never been a friend of the dark.

“Come on, no need to worry,” Dmitry whispered as he ducked into the building, with Anya close behind.

“I’m not worrying,” she hissed back.

Warm air washed over them immediately and her coat felt far too heavy upon her shoulders. “What is this?” She asked, peering at Dmitry with confusion.

“Wait,” he responded, pressing a finger to her lips before releasing her hand and vanishing into the thick darkness.

Anya shifted her weight from foot to foot, wrapping her arms around herself. A moment passed and all she could hear were Dmitry’s footsteps as he faded away. At last, light flooded the warm building and her hand flashed over her eyes to shield her eyesight. Dmitry jogged back, taking her hand from over her eyes and pressing a kiss to her cold knuckles.

Anya couldn’t hold herself back; she gasped. She was still adjusting to the brightness but within the middle of the room was a grand, aged piano. It was a deep black, with silky white keys and steady legs holding itself upright. Her gaze flew to Dmitry who was searching her face like a little boy, simply wanting a scrap of proof that she was happy.

“I - what - how?”

He beamed, flushing red. “I bought it, Anya. From one of the people at work.” He reached for both of her hands. “I didn’t know if you’d be happy with it. I know you must have played as a kid and I thought - you know, - since it’s been three years. . . it would be fitting.” A moment passed and he couldn’t contain himself. “Do you like it?”

A slow smile reached Anya’s face and she squeezed his hands with a firm strength. “Yes. I do. I love it, Dima.” She touched the side of his face with one hand, wishing she could englobe the thankfulness she felt for everything he’d done for her the past three years in words. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he beamed. “I don’t know if you can still play, it’s been so long. But I’m sure I can find someone who’ll teach you. We’re both earning money, we can make it work. If it’s worth it.”

Anya turned, walking towards the piano and gently reaching out to brush her fingertips against the instrument. Memories came trickling back; evenings in the ballroom, twirling and dancing with her father as someone played the piano. Her mother hiring an instructor to teach the children. They had all been too restless and excited to learn much. Anya had always loved listening to her mother play and she could remember the tune of one Russian waltz in particular. She seated herself at the piano, gingerly resting her fingers on the keys before playing the simple notes she remembered. Fingertips gliding across the keys, she almost forgot about Dmitry until he rested a hand on her shoulder.

“Did you know our piano at home had paintings on the side of it?” She whispered, looking up at him. “It was a piece of art in itself. It was a gift from my father to my mother. She loved music so much.” 

Dmitry seated himself next to her, smiling softly. “Do you remember when I told you for the first time about my childhood?”

“Yes. I loved how you always called it ‘ _my_ Petersburg’. Like no one else could ever take it from you.”

Anya played a couple notes on the piano and then began singing, half-laughing as she recalled the details of her past that had been nothing but a blank slate in her memory for so long. “Dancing bears, painted wings, things I almost remember.” 

Her hands elegantly glided across the keys, the beautiful melody echoing hauntingly in the large room. Her lips moved with the words as if they were heavily carved into her memory, never to be forgotten. Again.

“And a song someone sings, once upon a December.”

She held out the note and looked expectantly at him to continue but he just shook his head at her and she continued with a roll of her eyes. She'd taught him the words long ago so he had no excuse but his own hesitance to hold him back from singing.

“Someone holds me safe and warm, horses prance through a silver storm, figures dancing gracefully across my memory.”

She winked at him, trying to edge him on so he'd join her in singing but he remained silent.

“Far away, long ago, glowing dim as an ember.”

And suddenly, with the caution of a proud man afraid to fail: 

“Things my heart used to know, things it yearns to remember.” 

Dmitry commenced tentatively, his worn voice trying out the tune Anya had created gingerly as if it was something dangerous and unfamiliar. Singing was clearly not his forté but his low voice suited the song's beautiful tune. 

Together now, Anya lifted her voice to blend with Dmitry's in a perfect harmony that only angels could compete with.

“And a song someone sings. . . Once upon a December.”

The final note lingered in the still air for a moment longer before Anya finally and slowly lifted her graceful fingers from the keys. The air hummed with a peaceful energy and Anya knew her family was with her. Perhaps they were not visibly present but their hearts had never felt more connected to hers.

She could sense her her sisters’ watchful love and her mother's warm smile upon her. 

She reached out to grasp Dmitry's hand and let the silence and her unspoken thankfulness replace the music. 

A quiet moment later, Anya turned to him with a small smile quirking the edges of her lips upward.

“I think they'd like you.”

And he didn't have to think twice to know who she meant.


End file.
